


Enough

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: The Homecoming [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:44:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1814011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then John came home.</p><p>It was a Tuesday in early February.  It was raining.  The air was damp and bitter with the kind of cold that seeps beneath the layers of anything you are wearing and chills you to the very bone.</p><p>John came with one suitcase and a duffle bag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough

And then John came home.

It was a Tuesday in early February.  It was raining.  The air was damp and bitter with the kind of cold that seeps beneath the layers of anything you are wearing and chills you to the very bone.

John came with one suitcase and a duffle bag.

Despite the fact that he was improperly dressed for the weather, he stood outside on the pavement and stared up at the windows of 221b Baker St. for a good fifteen minutes before he finally stepped over the threshold and back fully into Sherlock’s life.

Sherlock takes up his violin and starts to play as he sees John finally make a beeline for the front door.  It will give him time to gather himself, to push down and obfuscate the wild joy that is racing through every cell like fire. 

He hears John’s tread on the stair.  He hears him halt at the entry to the room, set his belongings down with a soft thunk.  He hears him take a deep breath and then let it out slowly.

Sherlock glances over his shoulder then.  “Oh, hello John.”

John treats him to a brief, tight smile that doesn't quite manage to travel all the way to his eyes.  “Hey.”

“Mrs. Hudson is having your room painted.” He turns then, and sets down the violin.  It is easier than he thought.  Things feel right. John is in his right place, and Sherlock’s world, so long out of focus, is suddenly becoming clear once again.  He can breathe.

John cocks a brow and frowns slightly in confusion.  “Eh?”

“She’s having your room painted.  I told her you were moving back today, and she said it would be done, but the contractors decided to be predictably tardy, and here we are.  Everything is draped in plastic.  You’ll have to put your things in my room.  You can sleep there, too, if you like.  They’re supposed to return to finish the job Friday next.”

That was rather a lot to have out at once, Sherlock realizes.  It was prattling.  Random.  Near nonsense.  Perhaps he is more anxious than he realized.

“Umm—okay.  Yeah.  Fine.  Just to have it out of the way, yeah?”  John picks up the bags, goes and deposits them beside Sherlock’s wardrobe and returns to the sitting room. 

Sherlock looks longingly at his violin.  No.  The room is cold.  John is cold.  He should build a fire.  He does, and John settles himself into his old chair, and takes up the day’s paper without a word.  Sherlock sits in his own chair, tents his fingers beneath his chin and looks at John.

He’s lost weight.  His face is shielded by the paper, but Sherlock can see it in his fingers, his calves.  There was a pallor about him too, despite the flush on his cheeks from the cold when he arrived.  He is not eating.  The dark rings under his eyes, so much pronounced.  Not sleeping either, then.  His hands tremble ever so slightly.  It could be from the cold, but Sherlock suspects that hunger is the more likely culprit.  John has never been one who could go long without eating.

“Italian?”

John lowers the paper. “What?”

“Italian—Angelo’s.  For lunch?  I’ve not eaten since Sunday.”  A small lie, but John is more amenable when he thinks that something is for Sherlock’s good rather than his own.

“Oh.  Yeah.  Now?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“No. It’s fine.”

 

* * *

 

It is after lunch but nowhere near tea when they arrive.  The restaurant is predictably empty.  Two women sitting near the back of the room, sipping on cocktails and chatting quietly.  A waitress nibbling on bruschetta at the bar during her break. There was no need to reserve his usual table, but of course he did.

Angelo greets them with a smile.  He expresses delight at John’s presence which seems to please John in some small way.  The tension around his mouth and eyes loosens just a little, and he smiles at Angelo, appreciatively. 

Angelo leaves briefly and returns with two glasses of water, a basket of bread, a candle. 

John smiles and nods in acknowledgement. 

The man leaves and John looks up from his menu.  “Been awhile since we’ve eaten here.”

“Yes.”

John looks around.  “It’s hardly changed, and I think it’s been—oh, four years at the very least.”

“Yes.”

John sets his menu down, and looks at Sherlock fully for the first time since he walked back into 221b over an hour before.  “Remember the first night we came here.  Staking out Northumberland St. for that cabbie, off and dashing in no time.  You going to let me finish my meal this time?”  John is smiling, truly smiling with warmth, sincerity and just a hint of fun. 

Sherlock feels his heart squeeze tight with hope.  He was right to bring them here.  They haven’t eaten here since just after incident with The Woman came to its inevitable conclusion.  The place holds nothing but pleasant memories for John.

Sherlock smiles back.  “I’ll think about it.”  He winks.  John has always liked that.  He likes it still apparently, because Sherlock is rewarded with another smile before John picks the menu back up and pretends to read it.

Angelo returns.  John orders something.  Sherlock doesn’t really hear what.  He is busy looking at John, cataloguing every detail.

Angelo turns to him.  “The same,” he says. He’s not hungry.  He’s here to make sure that John eats.

Angelo goes to the kitchen and returns in moments with a bottle of Pinot Noir, ‘on the house’.

John murmurs thanks.  Pours.  His hands are still trembling.  He takes a sip, pronounces the wine _amazing_ , and then takes another.  He knows better than to drink on an empty stomach, and so quickly too.  He wants to get drunk then.  Interesting.

Sherlock takes a sip from his own glass.  It _is_ good.  Angelo has been very generous.

“Any cases on?”

“Mmm…?” 

“Cases.  Anything interesting?”

“A few that might prove promising.  I just solved one yesterday.”

“Tell me about it.”

And Sherlock does, because it was interesting, and it’s been an age since he’s had the chance to see John so lit up, so wholly focused on him, his every word and gesture. 

John continues to sip at his wine.  When their meal comes his glass is empty and he refills it.  Sherlock takes another sip from his glass and sets it down again.

John does not talk about himself.  He does not mention quitting his job at the clinic, or how his search for new employment has been going.  He does not broach the subject of the difficulty he had with selling the flat in Acton.  He never mentions Mary.  He never mentions Gemma and the tiny white gravestone sitting in the quiet cemetery across town.  John just smiles, and eats, and drinks and listens.

The tension in his shoulders relaxes.  The furrow between his brow smooths as the wine takes effect, and he allows himself to let go.

Sherlock finishes his own glass of wine and lets John refill it, more to ensure that John doesn’t drink it rather than from any intention of drinking it himself.

John has months of cases to catch up on.  He is a rapt audience, and Sherlock has admittedly been languishing without a set of ears to hear him expound upon the wonders of his own deductive powers.  He soaks in as much of John’s awe and regard as possible.  John has not been this complimentary in years.  It is a smokescreen, a momentary distraction, Sherlock knows this.  But he will enjoy it while he can.  There is time enough for the difficult conversations that will inevitably come later.

They finish eating.  John orders dessert.  Angelo brings two forks.  John insists that Sherlock help him eat it, and he does.  It’s some random kind of pudding.  Nothing that really appeals to his palate.  But John is here, sharing food with him, wanting to draw out this lunch as long as possible. 

More people have started to enter the restaurant now.  They have been here two hours at least.  Angelo could use the table back.  He is indulging them.  John is pouring another glass of wine.  The bottle is emptied when he does.

Sherlock nods toward the glass.  “You’re going to need a cab, or I am going to have to carry you home if you finish that.”

John looks at the glass.  He grins rebelliously and then downs the glass in a single gulp.  Sherlock raises a brow as John grimaces at his own mistake, but somehow still manages to get it down, and then Sherlock smiles in spite of himself.  “We should go home.”

“Yes,” John agrees.  He stands, steadies himself with a hand on the edge of the table and waits for Sherlock to join him before walking out the door.

Sherlock walks close on their way back, and something about that nearness seems to shore John up, keep him from stumbling into the nearest gutter.  Three glasses of wine at lunch, the first on an empty stomach, the last finished much too quickly?  Unheard of.  Sherlock can’t help but suppress another smile at the thought.

“What…?”  John is smiling, slurring his words a little at the edges.  Everything about him is soft, open.

“You.”

“What ‘bout me?”

“You’re very drunk for three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon.”

John grins.  “I am, aren’t I.”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirms.

They are home.  Sherlock unlocks the door and they step into the dimness of the entry. Sherlock holds the door open for John, and then closes it behind them.   John leans against the wall opposite, and reaches out a finger, pressing it momentarily against the center of Sherlock’s chest.

“And you…”  He draws his finger back, but Sherlock can still feel heat in that small spot, a prickling caused by the pressure and familiarity of it rather than any real body heat per se.  “You are disappointingly sober.”

“We can’t both be drunk.  Last time that happened we both woke up on the floor of a prison cell.”

John blinks, and then suddenly, and without warning all the beautiful openness is gone and there is only sadness.  And it is a sorrow without walls.  He is too inebriated to call upon his usual resources.  For one horrible moment Sherlock is afraid John might cry.

“Come on,” Sherlock murmurs softly.  “Let’s get you upstairs and get some water into you.”

John blinks again, and just like that the moment passes.  He nods.  “Yes.  Water.  Right.  Good.”

 

* * *

 John sits in his chair.  Sherlock brings the water, watches John drink one, two, three glasses.  Good.    He sits down across from him. 

“Feel better?”

“I felt fine before the water.”

“Yes.  I know.”

John is looking at him.  Just looking.  And it has been so long since those navy irises, flecked with tea brown, pupils dark and wide were focused on him like this.  He feels warm.  Not uncomfortable.  Warm.  Alight.  Pleased. 

“What now?” John asks.

Sherlock only smiles in question. 

“What now?”  John’s voice low, gentle. 

“Cluedo?”

John just shakes his head.  The smile on his face is—it’s new.  It’s—something—something Sherlock can’t parse together into a cohesive whole.  He knows what it would mean on the face of someone else, but this is John.  This is John drunk.  On his face it is unexpected.  In his state of inebriation it might be a problem.

“Chess?” 

John smiles and leans back in his chair, legs splayed open.  Open.  So open.  He is too open.  “Nope.”

“Then what?”  They are inching very close to dangerous territory.  It is too soon.  John only just back a few hours.  Broken.  Sherlock knows this even if John is ignorant of it.  John chooses ignorance more times than not in these sorts of matters.  The utmost care is required, or things could easily be irrevocably torn apart before they have even started to mend.

“What do you want?”  There is no doubt anymore about John’s intention.  His tone is clearly an invitation.  His body language only confirms this.  He is sitting up, leaning forward.  His voice is low.  His tongue slides out to moisten his lips.  This is likely subconscious.  It is very quick.  But it is a clear tell.

Sherlock looks at him.  He is so…  He sat in that very spot well over a year ago, and asked the same question his eyes are asking now.  “Am I pretty?”  Unspoken: _Do you want me?  Could you ever?  Am I what you like?_

Yes.  Yes.  To all of it, yes!

How can John still not know?  But he doesn’t.  It is clear he doesn’t.  This would not be happening without the assistance of alcohol.  And Sherlock knows well enough that questions posed when under the influence are dangerous things.  Not to be toyed with.  Walls down.  Heart raw, beating, so exposed.  Easily scarred and crushed.

Sherlock leans forward just a little. Sheer indulgence.  This moment may never come again, and he desperately wants the memory of it.  He wants all the nuances in John’s expression, wants the scent of John, the warmth of John.  He wants all these layers. 

John’s mouth falls open just a little.  His eyes widen.  His pupils dilate.  The pulse at his throat thrums. 

“I want you to ask me that again when you are sober.”  Sherlock is as gentle as he knows how.  It is the truth, and that is good.  He’s done with lies when it comes to things that matter.  This matters.  This matters so very much.  “Ask me then, and I’ll tell you. “ 

It’s a promise.  John knows it.  Sees it.  He will remember this.  He isn’t that drunk.  He can choose when or if this conversation happens again. 

John swallows hard.  His cheeks flush crimson. 

Sherlock feels his stomach drop.  It is a game, flirting.  It is a delicately nuanced game.  There is little room for brutal honesty.  It is intention couched in flimsy half-truths.  It is safe.  John wanted that safety.  Sherlock has just obliterated it. 

But how else to approach this?  These are their hearts.  This is their future.  If love is a game, then Sherlock isn’t playing anymore.  He wants John.  He wants all of him.  He wants him fully, purely, and above all honestly.  Not this.  Not veiled in the security of inebriation, flirtation.  Not some toying, light, casual thing. 

There is nothing casual about the way Sherlock feels about the man across from him, nothing casual about the way Sherlock’s body responds to the mere thought of him.  So much sentiment, flowing over into chemical response, chemical response interpreted as desire, need, crushing want.  Ache—bone-deep.  Hunger. 

This doesn’t happen to him.  Ever.  He doesn’t let it.  But John.  John has changed everything.  That is why this is important.  That is why he knows now, for certain, in this moment, that he would rather lose John altogether than have a relationship that is casual, temporary, built on half-truths and little white lies.  He wants the truth of John—even if that means the end of everything.

“John…”

John is leaning back now.  His face a tapestry of embarrassment, shame, grief, all of it suddenly dissolving into mute anger.  He shrugs.  “It’s fine.  It’s always been fine.  All of it.”

“I know.  And yes.  It is.”

John’s brows knit together for a moment, and then he lets out a small huff of a laugh.  It’s bitter.  “Always what you want.”  John sounds like he hates him.  He doesn’t.  Sherlock knows this.  Masks.  Defenses.  Walls.  John is crawling back into himself.  This is what he does.  He doesn’t mean it, but it still hurts.

“No.”

John looks up.  His jaw is clamped tight.

“Not just me.  Not this time.”

John nods.  Once.  Curt.  He sniffs.

“I might ask you the same question.”  It’s out before Sherlock realizes.  Not smart.  Not good.

John’s head snaps up. 

And Sherlock knows he has to finish.  “What do _you_ want, John?”

It is very quiet in the room.  The coals from the fire Sherlock lit earlier crackle and occasionally pop in the hearth.  It has begun to rain again outside.  Cars pass on the street.  John is not looking at him.  He is staring down at the arm of his chair, his whole body tense.  He clenches his left fist once, twice.  He bites the inside of his cheek and smiles wryly.  Sherlock waits.  He would wait forever if it meant John might answer this one question honestly.

Finally he looks up.  He looks at Sherlock.  He still looks as though he would rather punch him square in the face than answer this question.  But his mouth opens.  Words come out.  Real words.  “I want everything to stop being so hard.”

Sherlock sits back.  “Alright.”

John’s eyes cloud with confusion for the briefest of moments.

“Is there anything I can do?”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches in something that looks like incredulity. 

And Sherlock waits.  There is no need for clarification.  It is a simple, considerate, unloaded question, but not one that is easy to answer—especially for John.   

After a moment John relaxes.  He leans back in his chair, weary, the sadness back in his eyes.  He stares into the glow of the coals in the hearth beside them.  “You’ve already done, Sherlock.  You let me come home.  That’s what I want.  Just…”  His voice trails off.  He doesn’t finish, only brings his fingers up to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

“It’s always been your home, John.”

And John looks up, away from the hearth.  The anger is gone. He forces a weary smile and nods.  “Yeah.  I know.”  Almost a whisper.  He’s tired.  So tired. 

“You should sleep.  Take my bed.  I have an experiment that needs tending to.  I’ll be up most of the night.  I can catch a minute or two on the couch if need be.”

John nods, braces himself against the arms of the chair and hoists himself to his feet.  “Yeah—yeah, I think I will do.  It’s been…”  He stares down at Sherlock, the softness back.   “Lunch was nice.”

“It was,” Sherlock agrees.

“It’s good to be home.”

And Sherlock doesn't know what to say. Surely John can see the relief and barely concealed joy in his eyes.  He nods.

John takes a step forward, reaches down, lays a hand on the top of Sherlock’s head.  His fingers card gently, once, and then his hand drops.  “Tea in the morning?”

“If you don’t mind.  Mrs. Hudson means well, but she never brews it strong enough.”  Sherlock forms these words somehow, and they seem to make sense to John. 

He nods.  He smiles a weak, weary smile, but one that is clearly fond.  He walks down the hall and shuts the door to Sherlock’s bedroom behind him.

Sherlock’s scalp sings where John’s fingers left their ghost trails through his curls.  His heart sings too, with the knowledge that it is near five o’clock on a Tuesday, it is a cold and rainy day in February, but the room is warm with lingering affection and the distinct spice of another human being.  It is a day like any other winter day—grey, drab, mediocre.  It is, but it isn’t.  It is exceptional for the fact that John is home. It is five o’clock on a cloudy February evening and John Watson is safe, and warm, and asleep in his bed.  All is right with the world. 

It is enough for now.

 

 

 


End file.
